


Shadows of Regret

by Kennel_Boy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:46:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/pseuds/Kennel_Boy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Feanor's obsession deepens, Maedhros' doubts begin to weigh upon him. Takes place just before Fëanor completely loses it and sails off for Losgar with his sons and his host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows of Regret

Ice crunches beneath my boots as I make my way to Fingolfin's camp. The hood I have drawn over my head is for warmth only. There is so little light on the Helcaraxë that I doubt I would be noticed from afar, red mane or no.

I can feel my father's impatience and suspicion, sharp and hot like the sting of a wasp, at the back of my mind. He is never far from my thoughts these days, for his trust wanes with every passing hour. I should not be here. I know too well that my absence will only feed his paranoia. He sees all hands turned against him these days. I do not know if my father's lust for the Silmarils has at last overtaken his mind in full or if it is his guilt for the blood spilled at Alqualondë that torments him. His mind is closed to me. I can only try to keep my doubts hidden from him in the hopes that he will confide in me sooner or later. All the same, I must be here.

None question my presence, even when I make my way to Fingon's tent. The deep affection between my kinsman and myself is well-known, though not the true quality of it. Fingolfin has been aware for some time of just how deeply I love his son, for Fingon would never keep anything from his sire. Fingolfin's acceptance of our natures was a shock that I do not think will ever fully leave me. I would like to believe that it is love for his son that makes him so accepting -- but for chance, Fingon and I might be full cousins, after all, and for that reason alone, I would not blame him for reacting in anger. I suspect, however, that my uncle sees our relationship in a forgiving light because he knows how my father would react to the news. Not for the whole of Eä would Fingolfin wish to be thought similar to my father.

So long as I can keep it from him, Fëanor will never know of the love Fingon and I share. I do not think that he would reject me for seeking the body of another man -- father cares little for what others do, so long as it does not impact his own plans -- but I cannot imagine what fury would overtake him should he come to realize that I love one of Indis' despised get.

Nay...I can imagine well Fëanor's anger and it causes my breath to stick in my throat, though I have been grown for many years.

I slide in through the tent-flap so quietly that I barely even disturb the ground-cover. With only faint starlight to see by, it takes me a moment to find where Fingon lies. There is no difference in night and day on this accursed ice. There is only darkness, cold, and bitter mists that cut into a body with each breath, and chill so deeply that warmth seems but a distant half-recalled dream.

He does not stir as I enter, but remains a shape huddled beneath far too few blankets to ward against the chill. Truly, he must be exhausted to remain so deep in dreams that neither cold nor intrusion can rouse him. I had hoped to speak to him, but I don't have the heart disturb his rest. He should have at least a small respite from our trials.

I smile tugs at my lips as I go to my knees at his side. Fingon is cocooned up to the eyes in his bedding. I cannot see his mouth, and I wonder if his lips are parted in that unconscious smile that so oft marks his sleeping. I want very much to touch him, to reassure myself of his reality in some small way. Much has already been lost in this quest: the lives of the Teleri and many of our kin, our honor, most of the ships that we purchased with it, and an innocence we did not know we had to lose until it was too late. I shall resist the little temptations that bedevil my mind, however. I shall not run my fingers through the raven-wing silk of his hair, or trace the soft, dark lines his brows make against the perfection of his skin. I will not tug the blankets away from his face and kiss those lips which must be as cracked and sore as my own. I will not in any way disturb him, not in admiration, and certainly not to burden him with my unease over Fëanor.

Instead, I watch him. My soul draws warmth from his presence, but my mind finds no solace. If I had but spoken words of caution to my father instead of taking up his oath, would he have turned away from this mad, bloody path? Would he have faltered if all his sons had not united behind him? I tell myself no...but I cannot be certain. I am the eldest of all my father's children. Did it not fall to me to examine all possibilities before choosing a path, if not for my father, then for myself and my brothers? If one of us had managed to rein our passions, would it not be possible that we could have brought the Valar to our way of thinking? We might be marching against Melkor with them, not crawling through this ice with the curses of Mandos shadowing our steps. Perhaps we might even now have the Silmarils and the Two Trees be restored.

Perhaps my beloved Fingon would not be huddled on the floor of a tent, shivering in the middle of a frozen waste.

I breathe deep through gritted teeth, though the cold sends pain down to their roots. The ache brings me back to the present. I cannot afford to mire myself in what might have been. Our path is chosen and I must resign myself to it.

My father demands I come to him. There is such power in his summons that I have risen to my feet before I am properly aware of my actions. I glance down, but Fingon has not woken. Cold winds have found their way beneath the tent and he shivers slightly in his blankets.

I must go, but I cannot leave him without comfort. I slip the thick, fur-lined cloak from my shoulders. It was a present from my grandfather on my last day of begetting, and the last time I saw that honored Elf alive. I tuck it securely around Fingon's body now. He inhales deeply, as if my scent is soothing to him, and shivers no longer. I pause for just a moment longer to watch him at rest, loving him with every fiber of my being before I slip back into the night. I am likely as mad as I suspect my father to be to set out in this place without my cloak, but Fingon will surely return it when he wakes.

Cold crystals crunch beneath my boots as I hurry to answer my father's call. I must be careful of my footing, for this place is treacherous and the ice cuts deep.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2003, brushed up slightly for reposting.


End file.
